


The Last to Fall

by vampirepunks



Series: Shadow Needing Light [2]
Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Feels, BAMF Johnny Silverhand, Character Development, Codependency, Cyberpunk 2077 Slang, Cyberpunk 2077-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Dysphoria, Enemies to Friends, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fix-It, Found Family, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Love Wins, Mental Health Issues, Nomad V (Cyberpunk 2077), Plotty, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, References to TTRPG Lore, Relic Aftermath, Requited Love, Rescue Missions, Romance, Slow Burn, Snark, Team Dynamics, Temperance Ending, The Author Regrets Nothing, Whump, between Johnny and Goro that is, it's skippable tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29324889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirepunks/pseuds/vampirepunks
Summary: V sacrificed everything to give Johnny a second chance at life, and he doesn't plan to waste it...But letting go is hard. Though he swears he'll never go back to Night City, a turn of fate sends him on a personal crusade to bring her back. With a little help from friends and enemies alike, the plan just might be crazy enough to work.
Relationships: Johnny Silverhand/V
Series: Shadow Needing Light [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2111964
Comments: 37
Kudos: 113





	1. Prologue: sing a song of a love gone wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Since this is *technically* a sequel, I heavily suggest reading Telepathic Hearts first :)
> 
> Also, a huge thank you to my exceedingly lovely beta-reader, [EclipseBorn!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclipseBorn)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kicking off with a short lil prologue :)

He’d recoiled at the sound the first time he changed his guitar strings. The fresh strings were stiff and resistant, hovering loosely above the fretboard. His hands shook as he cranked the machine heads round and round, fearful of breaking the strings. He’d taken it painfully slow, working at it until each was secure to its post, taut and ready for tuning. A young Johnny’s first curious pluck produced a sour note. It was a vibrating whine against his ears, the noise resounding like a shriek rolling up from hell’s depths. 

He’d wound the strings too tight. It was a simple beginner’s mistake, but still… Still, he never forgot that sound. 

It’s all he can hear when he breaks the surface. Lungs burn for oxygen, blood cries out for warmth, hands grasp for a lifeline. He grips the side of the basin and crawls from the pool of coolant. The ringing in his ears sounds like that one, long, bitter wail grinding on his nerves. V’s body--his body?--protests the biting chill of the viscous, slick substance coating skin and clothing. Johnny tries to stand, bracing on one knee. He slips on the slimy puddle growing beneath him and flesh meets the floor with a wet _slap._ Teeth clench as the ache sinks into his bones. Another try, slower. He rises to trembling hands and knees, crawling to sit back against the access point. These legs aren’t ready to carry him, still weak with icy pins and needles. 

Traces of blood stain the coolant basin below him, casting purple shadows on the surface. Johnny grips his side. V’s hand comes away red. He recalls the beating she endured to get here, adrenaline doing its damndest to pull her through. Her fight with Smasher was a battle won by sheer will, using the pain as fuel for an already ignited rage. This is the aftermath. Each breath is labored against the sting, head pounding with each heartbeat and weakness setting in. He lifts the shirt to survey the damage, vision going cloudy at the sight of split flesh. Rivulets of blood run hot down his torso. The coolant stings against the open wound. 

Grunts and pants turn into sharp hisses and sobs as he presses his hand to the wound to keep pressure on it and stop the bleeding long enough to get help. 

Somehow, this body hurts less than his mind. If anything, the physical pain is a welcome distraction from the strange, hollow ringing he hears. Behind the noise is… Nothing. 

Quiet. 

Silent.

_Empty._

He’s completely alone in a hushed-out Arasaka sublevel, stumbling around a mess of blood and coolant. 

There’s no response when he whispers, “V?” 

It’s just quiet, his own thoughts bouncing around an otherwise empty head. 

“S-sunshine?” 

_“Fuck,”_ he spits, pounding his fist to the floor. Droplets of coolant splash his face, a dull ache making its way up his arm. 

She sacrificed everything for him. She gave him breath in lungs not his own. A second chance as a life seen through her eyes, _without her._

There is no helping hand to reach for, no help on the way, just his own force of will to carry him forward. 

Her words haunt the edges of his thoughts. 

_“I told you I’d take a bullet for you.”_

He staggers to his feet. 

_“...be the person you were always meant to be.”_

He calls out, “Alt? How do I get out of here?” 

More silence. 

_“I don’t regret a thing, Johnny.”_

He takes a deep breath. 

_“Have a beautiful life, Johnny.”_

He steadies his footing.

_“Fill it with music and friendship… and love…”_

He trudges forward. 

_“Don’t forget I was here.”_

He searches for an escape. 

_“Because I love you.”_

And so, Orpheus walks alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's been listening to Hadestown? Not me (͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	2. Denial

“We’re closed!” Cassius shouts. 

Johnny pounds his fist harder against the door, smearing blood across the surface. 

“P-please, I need… shit, need help! It’s a… an e-emergency…” he says, voice hoarse as he coughs the words out. A taste like rust coats his tongue. 

In retrospect, slumping against the door itself wasn’t the best idea. Johnny hits the floor hard when he loses the support. He coughs blood on Cassius’ shoes. 

It’s so cold. 

“Shit, somebody get out here and help me get her on the table!” the ripper shouts. 

A familiar jingle sounds on the TV in the lobby. 

_“This is WNS News, we interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring up you a breaking story at Arasaka Tower--”_

_Oh fuck._

Preem luck, dragging himself into Cassius’ clinic right as the news hits the screens. Vik’s was closer, but somehow he doubts the ripper would help him after realizing he’s not V. He doesn’t know him well enough to say--for all he can guess, the guy’d have no reason not to kick him out to flatline in the alley. Johnny tries to get up on his knees, to no avail. The room spins round and round, sound fading into silhouettes of words. 

“Hold on there, don’t move, let me--” 

_“--over one hundred Arasaka personnel slaughtered--”_

Cassius snaps, “You motherfuckin’ gonks gonna help me with this chick or what? Take your eyes off the screens n’ get your ass over here, Jamie!” 

He’s lifted off his feet. With his head so light, it feels like he’s flying… somewhere far away from this accursed city. 

“I lost her,” Johnny breathes. “I can’t believe I lost her. Sh-she slipped right… right through my fingers...”

“Easy there, kid, we’re gonna get you sorted out.” 

He feels the bite of a needle. 

_“The NCPD has identified--”_

For a minute, he thinks he hears her voice whisper, “Lights out, Johnny boy.” 

His mind reaches into the dark for hers, but she’s not here with him. 

“Was ‘sposed to be… me…” he says. 

“Jamie, hurry it up! Pass me the--” 

Cassius’ voice distorts into the distance, and then it’s gone. It’s all gone. 

When Johnny wakes, ol’ doc Ryder is seated across from him, arms folded pensively, knee bouncing up and down at a furious pace. 

“How… how long was I out...?” Johnny mumbles, gripping his aching head. 

“There you are,” Cassius says, standing. His arms stay crossed, with no sign of budging in the near future. “You got some balls, kid. Your face is plastered on every news feed, saying 'shoot on sight.' Some are saying you’ve gone full cyberpsycho, but seein’ as how you were lucid enough to crawl in here, I’m guessing that’s not the case.” 

“Not cyberpsychosis, no…” Johnny says, sitting up. 

“So what’s the story, then?”

“Wouldn’t believe me if I told you. What time is it?” 

“Ass-crack of dawn. You were out cold, and for good reason. See, found a bullet lodged in your subdermal armor, probably woulda killed you if not for that, but you had some serious internal bleeding, a concussion, a nasty gash across your side, and two cracked ribs. You lost a lot of blood. Got you all patched up, but I’d suggest avoiding any more, let’s say, _strenuous_ activities like that for a couple weeks at the very least. Judging by the state you’re in, guessing you took a few hard falls?” 

“Could say that, yeah. Came at V--uh, at me, with all kinds of shit. Swords, rockets…” 

“Congratulations, then, you learned why it’s a bad fuckin’ idea to walk through Arasaka’s front door and start blasting away,” the ripper grouses. 

“We-- _I_ had a good reason, let’s leave it at that,” Johnny says. 

“Mentioned you lost someone.” 

“Rather not talk about it.” 

Cassius shakes his head and says, “Sure, try to decomish on my doorstep, put me at risk for harboring a fugitive, and just let me wonder what the hell it’s all about, why don’t ya.” 

“That about sums it up,” Johnny says flatly. “Thanks for all the help, doc. How much I owe you?” 

Cassius gives an incredulous laugh. “Like I said, some balls you’ve got there. Know what? I respect that. You’re good to go kid, just take these meds, pay up, and get your ass outta here.” 

“You’re the best, Ryder.” 

“Yeah yeah, take it slow and do me a favor by steering clear of my shop until ‘saka’s off your ass.” 

* * *

Johnny runs back to the closest thing he has to home. 

The Pistis Sophia’s ceiling fan emanates a soft hum as it rotates, as if to say, “Welcome back, old friend.” 

His knuckles go white from clenching the gun so tight, sitting by the door with an uneasy trigger-finger. He won’t go down easy if they come for him. This life is not his to lose. 

The bed sings a hollow song of a night he spent in it with V. Every space of this room breathes memories of her into his mind. As if he needed a reminder of the price paid for his second chance. 

His internal monologue is fucked all to hell; he can’t stop thinking “V’s hands” when he touches something, “V’s hair” when it falls into his face, “V’s head” when it aches. He can’t convince himself any of this belongs to him, and why should he? He catches glimpses of her face in reflections and hears her voice when he speaks. Johnny can’t shake the thought that she’ll still need this body, so he has to protect and preserve it for her.

He’s never been the type to get hung up on what’s fair. Life isn’t fair, everyone knows that. He’s a living reminder of that cold fact; born to a mean drunk, ran off to sell his soul on an enlistment form, thought he’d gotten his girlfriend killed, did get a good friend killed, lost his life to a pointless crusade against Arasaka… Fairness ain’t a factor worth considering in all that. But having to live in V’s skin, being left behind with only an order to have a good life? His thoughts echo, _it’s not fair, it’s not fair,_ on a ceaseless loop. 

None of this is real. No, this is some sick divine joke and he’s being played for a court jester. He died, that’s a fact. Maybe he never came back at all. Maybe this has been one long journey through Hell, or some other sort of cruel underworld. 

Has he been having a nightmare in Mikoshi all along? This is all too surreal to be true. 

Johnny doesn’t sleep. He’s forgotten what it feels like to dream alone, to wake up without another’s thoughts caressing against his. 

Calls roll in on the holo all night. He doesn’t answer a single one. 


	3. Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific content warnings: severe sleep deprivation, vivid hallucinations, invasive thoughts

Three days he’s been sitting by the door. Time is marked only by the sun’s arrival and departure, painting the room in shades of gold and silver with night and day. Particles of dust drift by in the slotted sunbeams leaking in, careless of the space he occupies. He’s become one with the chair and gun, sitting a feverish vigil tainted by fear. City noise drones on outside. The machine never stops and he’s just a spare part. Night City doesn’t need him or care he’s here. Was there ever a time it truly paid him mind, or did it simply do what it does best and consume him with the rest of the faceless masses? Rocking back and forth on the chair’s edge, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know. 

Sometimes Johnny nods off, his grip going slack and his head hanging heavy. For minutes at a time, he tastes a dark, dreamless black space once again. The abyss stares long and hard, not into him, but right through him. It knows him too well. 

He checks the lock twice every time he gets up to stretch his legs, aimlessly circling the confines of the motel room like a starving vulture, spiraling the skies without reprieve. 

V’s eyes don’t look the same in the mirror, bloodshot, wide, their warmth gone. He doesn’t see himself and doesn’t quite see her either. This face is just a shadow cast by a hope buried and gone. 

“You promised,” Johnny says with a tone like sandpaper. “How could you…” 

The reflection in the mirror moves, sending a tremble coursing through him. The face, _her face,_ contorts into a wicked grin, eyes wild and teeth bared. 

His breath hitches in his throat when it--she?--speaks. 

“Yeah?” she purrs out. The voice is all wrong, laced with malice and mockery. “You gonna keep pissin’ and moaning about it forever? Live and die here wallowing in your own guilt?” 

“I--I don’t know…” 

“You don’t know? Hmph, I’d say you better start figuring it out. What do you do when you kill the one you love, Robbie?” 

Johnny recoils. “Don’t. Call. Me. That.” 

“Oooh, hit a little soft spot, Robbie boy? You can paint yourself up in a new name, new clothes, but we both know you’ll never be more than daddy’s little disappointment. Nothin’ more than a sad sack sucker kid who couldn’t get it right. Boo-hoo, poor you, losing the only person who could ever believe the shit comin’ out of your mouth and take you for the man you _wish_ you were. Look where that got me, hmm?” 

“You’re not… real…” Johnny says, hands clenching at both sides of the sink. “No, no, just… need to sleep…”

“No less real than you, isn’t that right?” she says. “Face it, you’re just lines of code jammed into a pretty little skin suit that you _stole_ from me. Con of the century, getting me to love you, don’t ya think? Honestly, I’m impressed.”

“No, no, you _chose_ to--” 

_“Did I?!”_ mirror V shrieks. “And what have you done with it, the precious gift no one could ever match, and just take one look at you…” 

“Yeah?” he snaps back. “You made this decision all on your own, didn’t give me any say in it, _I tried!_ Told me to…” 

“Aw, look at Robbie boy and the brand new heart he grew, actually realizing what it is to be a murderer. Here, would this make it easier?” 

Blood seeps from her lips and throat, skin porcelain-pale. “Like what you see? Does it feel _better?”_

“N-no, stop…” 

“Take one fucking look at your hands, enjoy the works you have forged, Silverhand!” 

When he looks down, his hands are soaked in sticky, dripping, hot blood. It’s not real, it’s not real, _it’s too real._

A scream rips from his throat, _“I said stop!”_

He drives his fist into the mirror. Glass shatters and crumbles around his fist, a spiderweb pattern stretching out from the center of impact. He sees red all around, a neon rage taking over, burning him alive from the inside out. He rumbles another scream, manic and distraught as he pulls the mirror from the wall and throws it down, legs coming down with no rhythm to grind it to splinters and shards beneath his feet. 

“You just left me here!” Johnny shouts, bracing a foot against the wall and ripping at the bathroom door until it severs from its hinges. 

“By myself!” 

He flips the coffee table, kicking it until the legs snap loose. 

“No clue where I’m supposed to go!” 

He snaps one of the table legs over his knee, casting it aside. 

“Just told me to ‘have a beautiful life,’ fuck’s that supposed to mean?!” 

He pulls a drawer from the dresser and starts hammering it against a wall. The wood squeaks in protest, but he just keeps slamming until it breaks. 

“We made a deal!” 

He seizes hold of a lamp next. The bulb pops on the first blow, glass flying in all directions. 

“My life for yours, it was that goddamned simple!” 

Johnny drops to his knees. 

“And I wish I could believe you just gave up, too tired to keep fighting but…” 

He cries, finally, he cries for her, stripped bare of his resolve to hold it back. 

“But you really did love me, didn’t you? You stubborn _bitch.”_

He chokes on the last word. 

She left him here, his hands overflowing with everything he never found a way to say. It’s not right, forcing him to carry this weight on his shoulders. 

Cold, sobering clarity comes when he lifts his eyes to the destruction he has wrought. Broken things lie all around him, as if this room has just endured a hurricane. 

The bed embraces him like a keeper of lost, fractured souls. The sheets are cool against his skin, warm from everywhere the sun has touched it. Somehow, it still smells like V; faint whispers of desert rain, dirty laundry, and floral shampoo. It’s the most comfort he’s felt since losing her. 

Johnny tells himself she’ll be there when he wakes up, and at last, sleep takes him hostage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of your incredible comments have been so encouraging, it warms my heart 😭💖💖💖  
> You guys are amazing, I love you all 🥰💖


	4. Bargaining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific content warnings: catcalling, sexual harassment/assault
> 
> This was a tough one to write, but it felt apt for the additional element of struggle Johnny faces going forward in Fem V's body.

The morning light on the balcony warms his skin from the cold dawn air. Rays of sun softly hum words of salvation and refuge. There is no melody in their hazy promises of a brighter tomorrow. He’s been here for days, pacing in and out of the motel room, bereft of direction. 

He thinks about calling Kerry back, but he can’t bear to darken his doorstep with the bad news. V was good for Kerry. Hell, she was good for a lot of people. To take that away… No, it’s better to let him walk with a little faith, even if it’s hollow. 

So he calls Rogue. He doesn’t expect her to answer, and still she lets him down. The voicemail chime urges him to say something. He takes a long drag off his cigarette before speaking. 

“Rogue, it’s me. Guess you heard the news, probably put two and two together... You always did have a sense for these things. Look, I get why you didn’t answer, since I only ever come to ask for shit, but not this time.” He clears his throat and continues, “V’s gone. It’s just uh, just me now. She went with Alt, beyond the Blackwall, God knows where. I’m in Pacifica now, trying to figure out what comes next. So… Call me back.” 

Johnny hangs up the holo and leans on the railing, trying to catch a little more light on his face. He lets the burned-down cigarette slip between his fingers to the pavement below. Waves collide with the shore in the distance, filling the air with the scent of salt. 

The roller coaster rests ever-steadfast on the horizon, forsaken to stand alone as a memorial of better days--if there ever was such a thing in the first place. 

Maybe a ride could take the numbness from his bones. So he goes, striding toward a trip down memory lane, seeking to fill his chest with something other than the dull ache making itself at home inside of him. 

He’s never envied V’s mechanical talent quite like he does when he shocks himself on a hot wire in the fuse box. 

“Shit,” he spits. “Fuckin’ stings. How did she…? Right, right, watch your fingers, flip power to the generator, disengage the safeties… No big deal…” 

He breathes a sigh of relief when he finally figures it out, settling into the carriage for the ride. 

Johnny closes his eyes at the pause before tipping over the coaster’s first slope. He descends into the memory of V’s hand wrapped so certain around his, the way her easy smile settled a sense of peace into him. He reaches toward the sky, just like he did with her. The feeling isn’t there this time. The lost thrill is instead reborn as a question: _Will I ever feel complete again?_ The wind whips dust-hued hair in his face, obscuring the edges of his vision. The breeze softly calls to him, _never, never, never again._

Opening the door on one question is like getting lost in a hall of mirrors, infinite distortions of self with no escape in sight. There are no answers, only another turn in the maze, another thing to ask. It’s the kind of feeling that guarantees people’s attendance at Sunday mass. He envies those that find a way to believe they have the answers, content to look toward the elusive light at the end of the tunnel. _Mysterious ways_ is their end-all answer to despair. But Johnny, he only ever truly believed in three things--music, fighting the system, and V. He’s zero for three now. The music is muted by the entropy, the fight has been stripped out of him, and V is long gone. 

The coaster stutters to a stop at the platform, feeling worse than he did waking up to the domineering silence in his head. There’s a sensation of static filling the gaps of where V used to be. 

There’s not a soul left to shift the blame onto, it belongs to him. He knew he shouldn’t have gotten so emotionally involved, shouldn’t have played fast and loose with her heart, _should not have taken that fall._

Her affection came so easy, as natural as gravity itself, and she gave it freely. Johnny took and took and took everything V gave him, until she gave him her very life. 

She’s not dead, he reasons. She’s just… gone. ‘Part of something larger’ as Alt had put it, as if that was supposed to make sense. What Alt became… So strangely inhuman, an eldritch creature of code holding tight to human form. Imagining that for V twists his stomach into knots, nausea creeping up his throat. 

He takes a sharp breath inward, tries to get a grip, putting one foot in front of the other. 

A voice rolls his way, cheering out, “Hey, sweetheart, you lost?” 

Johnny keeps his head low, walking steadily onward. In the denser areas of Night City, he’d blend into the faceless crowd, but in a half-forgotten place like Pacifica, it’s not an effective tactic. 

“Get your sweet little ass over here and say hello, at least!” 

He keeps walking. Seriously, these scumbags start this shit first thing in the morning? 

Johnny whirls around to face his opponent when a hand seizes his arm. His eyes meet those of a blond creep with teeth like a battlefield. 

Creepy Guy sneers, “Like to play hard to get, huh, baby?” 

“Get off me,” Johnny hisses. 

“Aw, it doesn’t have to be like that, baby girl, come--” 

“Call me ‘baby girl’ one more time and you’ll be collecting your teeth off the pavement.” 

Creepy Guy laughs and snatches Johnny by his hair, jerking his face up to look at him. 

His breath is gag-inducing as he says, “Think you’re so tough, _baby girl?”_

Johnny spits in his face. 

Creepy Guy recoils in disgust and says, “What the fu--” 

Johnny doesn’t give him the chance to finish that sentence, landing a solid left hook to the mouth. The guy goes down hard, reeling back with bloody lips. 

“I fucking warned you,” he lows, kicking the bigger man while he’s down, boot meeting his face over and over until the pavement runs red. 

“Stop, stop!” Creepy Guy pleads. “I was j-just playin’!” 

Johnny kicks him again and says, “Why should I? You didn’t stop just cuz I asked!” 

He should kill him, shit, he wants to. It’d be a goddamned public service. 

But it’s not what V would do. She’d let him live, just to walk away knowing she’d made an example of him and took the higher road. So he gives a final kick to the guy’s throat and for once in his life, he walks away. 

“Hope you learned a little something, asshole!” 

The beaten man tries to talk, but all the effort produces is a grating wheeze. 

Johnny deltas out of there as fast as he can, sprinting back to the motel. 

He fishes a pair of scissors out of the toolbox V kept in his car, setting forward with a sense of purpose. 

Jagged swaths of hair fall to the bathroom floor in a halo around his feet as he cuts… and cuts… Until it’s reduced to a frazzled inch of hair around his head, and boy, it looks _bad._ But it looks less like V now. He’s wholly unsure if that’s a good thing or not. At the very least, it certainly doesn’t lend itself to ‘baby girl.’ 

He strips down, shaking the fallen hair from his clothes. 

The shower is lukewarm, flowing over flesh both foreign and familiar. V’s body is fortified by combat-ready chrome and planes of wiry muscle honed by a lifetime of physical demand. He explores his vessel with tentative hands, fingers tracing across ripples of muscle giving way to a precious few soft places. It’s beautiful in its own right, truly, but it was made to fit her. Johnny is bent into strange, uncomfortable shapes to be properly contained under her skin. 

He tries not to ask himself what could have happened today if she wasn’t so well-equipped for defense. What _does_ happen to so many… 

Johnny shivers at the concept, gritting his teeth to distract from his queasy stomach. Worse yet, he’s sick at himself for resenting this body already. Changes can come later. For now, he’d rather hold onto the idea that it’s still hers... even if he did mangle her hair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that even if I don't reply to all comments, I read each and every single one and I'm so grateful for your encouraging words. You peeps never cease to make me smile, and you're all breathtaking :') 💖


	5. Depression

Weeks pass. He stops marking the exact time and watches the world pass him by. The ceiling fan spins on and on. 

Kerry and V once talked about ‘life’s loops,’ cycles, chapters ending and new ones beginning… Johnny is starting to see the wisdom in that outlook. Decades ago, a broken, battle-scarred Robert Linder stumbled into this room and Johnny Silverhand walked out. Now, he’s back here once more, repeating the very same effort to drown out the void’s call. The more things change, the more they stay the same. 

He spends his days with his eyes cast to the ceiling. His nights are consumed by shiftless walks along a polluted shoreline. He strides miles of seaside but it always looks the same. Life without V is colorless. Like a novocaine dream, he forgets what it means not to be so fucking numb. 

The messages are the hardest part. Johnny listens to words not spoken for him and peers into vulnerabilities he isn’t meant to see. All the voicemails compose a harmonious truth: V never knew how beloved she truly was. 

Meredith calls over and over again but never leaves a message. Johnny understands. Sometimes, the things unsaid resonate the loudest. For a woman like Meredith, it’s the repeated effort that carries weight, anyway. 

Johnny always took Panam for a fighter, but he isn’t prepared for her to put a curse on his very name, though. The knife’s edge of her threats sinks deeper than he bargained for. 

Misty’s tarot reading leaves a pang of dread in his stomach. _“Something like death but not quite.”_ Nail on the fucking head, there… 

So, the only calls for him are insults and threats. Even Kerry doesn’t mention him. One more reminder that he has no one to turn to and nowhere to go. He should have expected as much. V had people because she made her endearments known; her love encompassed a particular tenacity. She didn’t give people a choice, they _had_ to feel it. Even a tough case like Meredith Stout couldn’t escape its pull. V’s friendship just possessed that sort of magnetism. 

Johnny doesn’t have the guts to answer the phone when Rogue calls back, and he’s glad for it when the cards are laid out. He fully expected her to lay a few choice words into him, but this? 

The air in his lungs goes cold while her words strike like bullets. 

The “hats off,” remark bothers him most. 

Mocking congratulations aren’t a good look on Rogue, but her next words prompt uncut hatred to boil in his blood. 

“I just wonder how you feel about that, Johnny--havin’ another person give their life for you.” 

It’s a low blow like no other, digging into a remorse she doesn’t seem to believe he’s capable of… Honestly, why should she? The Johnny she once knew would pat himself on the back for the way things panned out. 

“...you’re probably just back to all-nighters and cheap tequila, laughing about how stupid she was.” 

He closes the voicemail, can’t take another fucking word. 

It all clicks together. Rogue walks with her head held high, claiming she knows him, when she doesn’t know a goddamn thing about him anymore. She’s stuck in a vision of a Johnny he now resents, one he’s desperate to rise above. He’s been no different; he’s held Rogue upon a pedestal to be a symbol of longing for a time well past. 

There are insults and cheap shots on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t surrender to animosity. Instead, he sighs out towards the sea, erases the contact, and says, “So long, old friend...” 

Johnny wanders the streets of Pacifica, seeking a safe harbor he won’t find. The flickering neon lights of a liquor store leap out at him, beckoning him through the doors. 

The clerk greets him with an apathetic nod and says, “Hurry it up, alright? We’re closing in a few.” 

“Relax, know exactly what I’m looking for,” Johnny mutters, eyeing out the shelves and retrieving a bottle of tequila. 

“That gonna be all?” 

“Gimme a pack of Marlboros and I’m good to go,” he says. 

“Reds?” the clerk asks. 

“That’s fine.” 

A coy grin plays on the clerk’s face. “Cowboy killers. Classic.” 

“Sure, whatever,” Johnny says. “Am I good to go, or what?” 

“Just a sec, don’t get your panties in a wad,” the clerk says, frowning at the till for a minute. “It’s gonna be forty edds even.” 

“Thanks,” Johnny says, collecting his things and hurrying back to the motel. 

The starless sky looms heavy above while he stares at the bottle. All-nighters and cheap tequila it is, then, but there’s no cause for laughter. 

“She wasn’t stupid,” he mumbles to himself, unscrewing the cap. “She was brave.” 

The first bite of alcohol on his tongue tastes like a mistake. He spits to the side, cursing under his breath. V’s palate is honed to bourbon, protesting the burn of bottom-shelf tequila. 

He screws the cap back on, shifting the bottle’s weight from hand to hand on an uneasy rhythm. 

Johnny frowns, running his thumb over the label. 

“Know what, Rogue? Not gonna give you the goddamn satisfaction of being right.” 

He grips the neck of the bottle and hurls it toward the horizon. It soars over the balcony railing and crashes to the pavement below. The far-off sound of breaking glass feels… Hell, it feels good. All this time his nerves have been shot by his fear of regression, of wasting his second chance with a slow, backwards dance toward his old self. Maybe he has changed for good. Johnny retrieves his smokes from his pocket and slaps the cigarette pack against his palm to pack the tobacco a little tighter. 

He smiles, turns over his shoulder to see if V will smile back, saying, “Hey, what do you think--” 

The sentence falls flat. The night breeze howls around him as though laughing at his foolish lapse in memory. 

“Shit,” he sighs, slumping back against the railing. He sinks steadily to the floor. 

There are fleeting moments when he really does forget she’s not here with him. V’s presence was so constant that his mind still grasps for hers, trying to snag hold of a thought, a feeling, some little morsel of _anything._ It’s as automatic as breathing. 

He turns a cigarette in the pack upside down, tucking it in as the lucky one saved for last. It’s an age-old tradition, one that some say is rooted in military history. If you lived long enough to smoke it, you were a lucky son of a bitch. Johnny has always done it out of sentiment and taught V to do the same. There was a sort of knowing smile they’d share each time she made it to the lucky smoke. The one from her last pack is still sitting on the armory table of her apartment. 

“Not gonna smoke it?” he’d asked. 

V had grinned, replied, “Rather find out just how lucky I am. Think I’ll be back for it.” 

Then she took his hand, leading him along her side like somehow he’d be left behind if she didn’t. Those last few days they shared, she’d treated him so… human, seeming to forget he wasn’t flesh and bone.

V had learned to trust Johnny with her fears, seeking solidarity and affirmation in him. He never quite managed to fully actualize that milestone for himself. Maybe he was too focused on his worries for her, maybe he was just too damn scared. Still, her intuitive sense compensated for his cowardice. He had questions, aching doubts about the metaphysical sense to his existence. Was he nothing more than sequenced code mimicking the real Johnny Silverhand? V never seemed to think so, not even from the start. Sure, she called him a ghost once or twice, but she kept away from the dehumanizing choice words everyone else used. Even when her thoughts were clouded over with anger, she respected him as an individual. Shit, she even defended him to others, asserting that no matter what they said, Johnny was a _person._ She didn’t make room in her mind for any other notion, it was a simple fact to her--everybody else just had it wrong. He never could see why she had such intense faith in that. 

_“Because I love you.”_

Johnny’s hands shake with the first long drag of tobacco smoke. Without V’s steady belief in his humanity crowding out his doubts, he has to reconcile it with himself and take claim of his own identity. He sits a while, decides this is his last pack of cigarettes. This life is a gift, time to treat it like one. 

Johnny Silverhand lives again. He lost it all, but he’s real, he’s human, and _he’s alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all had a good Valentine's Day <3 
> 
> I've been sitting on this chapter for a minute, but dropped it a little slower since I'm trying to work out a posting schedule. I'm thinking 1-2 times a week for now, depending on how much time I have to write.


	6. Acceptance

He presses his palm against the inscription on the niche. 

_ “The girl who saved my life.” _

“So this is it, I guess,” Johnny says. “Trying to get a hold on some sense of closure… ‘Least it gives me an excuse to talk to you without feeling so damn stupid.” 

Mourners’ sobs echo softly on the walls of the columbarium. Everyone here has lost someone, he isn’t special. Yet, there’s a selfish, jaded thought that comes--none of these people have gone through something quite like this. He and V shared a mind and fabric of being with another, never alone with their own thoughts, identities intertwined. That story was theirs and theirs alone. 

The closest comparison Johnny can make is that of losing a limb. He recalls the strange, phantom pain as his brain tried to adjust to the change. The weight of his new arm tugged his posture vaguely leftwards for weeks. Seamless sensory mimicry tech ensured no loss of feeling, but the foreign look of chrome where flesh used to be made him grit his teeth and fumble to function properly. The salty old ripper that outfitted him rambled on and on about how it was all in his head. Turns out, losing an appendage to physical trauma is a wholly different experience than going willingly under the knife. “You’ll get used to it, kid,” he’d said, over and over. It was an arduous back-and-forth dance between lingering awareness of something absent and forgetting anything had changed. 

It’s no different with V. Johnny’s been holding his breath for the part where he gets used to it. Problem is, he can get a limb replaced, but there’s no filling the space she used to occupy. 

“That, uh, beautiful life you told me to have,” he says, “Figured I have to start trying for it sometime, right? Got myself an apartment in Pacifica, been spending a little time with this kid in my building… Sad situation he’s in, and I, uh, I know what he’s going through… A little too well, if I’m honest. I do what I can for him, still, never quite feels like enough.” 

He sighs and grasps the chains around his neck. Her bullet pendant clinks against the dog tags. 

“I’m trying to be someone you’d be proud of, to do justice to the sacrifice you made. Been thinking about,” he pauses to clear his throat, “well, transitioning. I tell myself you’d understand, but--I dunno. Still feels weird.” 

Johnny exhales on an embittered laugh and says, “You’re not even dead. Not really, anyway. But, gotta tell myself you’re gone for good or I’ll never move on, y’know? I… miss you something awful.” 

His grip tightens into a fist. The tags and pendant slot themselves between his fingers. 

Hope is a dangerous, addictive thing. One little nudge of fate, and he knows he’d lose the footing he’s gained, throw it all away on a suicidal crusade. So he finds the sliver of faith rooted inside and kills it. 

_ V is never coming home.  _

Johnny stops mid-step on his way out, a familiar name snagging in his periphery. 

“Jackie,” he mumbles. 

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, all words lost. 

He shakes his head, feeling the tug of memories V’s mind imprinted into him. He still feels the remnants of her grief for her lost partner in crime. 

“You and I never met, but I admit--kinda feels like I owe you, somehow. You didn’t know it, but… You gave me V. So… thank you.” 

He takes his leave. Sorrow follows in his shadow, never loosening its grip, but he’s ready to stop fighting it and simply  _ be.  _ Time will do what it does best and heal open wounds into scars. 

The clock ticks on and on, the sun rises and sets, and the world doesn’t slow for him. Air enters his lungs a little easier each morning. It isn’t a smooth process. Sometimes he lies in bed waiting for V to wake up. Sometimes he screams for her in the night. Sometimes he doesn’t feel much at all, perception fading in favor of becoming one with the monotony of his apartment’s grey wallpaper. The pain doesn’t change but he does, acclimating to it. 

Johnny remedies the thrumming silence by leaving the radio on overnight. The noise lets him sleep, and day by day a little color comes back into his life--albeit faded. The music doesn’t find him, but he applies his efforts to guiding Steve towards it, and that’s worth something. 

He gets by on the occasional gig for Mr. Hands, one of a handful of fixers that didn’t know V well enough to label him an imposter. He sticks to low-profile gigs; klep this, sabotage that, no headlines in sight. He gets paid with a verbal pat on the back and enough eddies to cover the bills. 

One day, he wakes up with the realization that he’s not living, only surviving. It isn’t enough and Night City has nothing left for him. It’s time to break free once and for all. 

Johnny sets his eyes on the open road ahead and buys the earliest ticket available. 

_ One last thing.  _

He soaks in the sight of the city, taking the scenic route toward North Oak with his lucky cigarette--his  _ last  _ cigarette--tucked between his lips. He drives a bit slower than usual, taking it all in through the buzz of nicotine and the breeze from the window. 

The Porsche looks pretty good parked in front of Kerry’s gate, paint shining in the light. 

He pats the hood as a final farewell and calls himself a cab back to Pacifica. 

The sunset shines on the horizon as he writes (and rewrites) a message to Kerry from the backseat. His finger taps off-rhythm on his knee. He prods himself to relax, keep it short, sweet, and simple. No need for expositions or platitudes. 

_ “Left you a little gift at the gate. Take good care of her.”  _

He shifts the bus ticket around in his fingers, frowning at the date. The day will come, and he’ll be ready to let go when it does. 

Johnny is going home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wraps up what's essentially Act 1 of this fic! Ah, poor Johnny. Next up: an interlude featuring some original characters.


	7. Interlude

Cigarette ash falls into the New Mexico sand. Grey blends with dusty brown, a subtle disparity of color much like the signs of age settling into his father’s hair. 

He likes to sneak a cigarette or two in the delicate hour of fading darkness before dawn breaks over camp. There’s solace in it, the sky drowning him in the darkest of blues. At twenty-five, Aster is too old to meet any real ire from his parents for smoking, but it’s a closet habit nonetheless. These days they’d probably just bitch at him about how expensive it is to replace a pair of lungs so he shouldn’t trash his, blah, blah, blah. Avoiding a reprimand isn’t what has him tucked out of sight in the short time before his family wakes, though. 

No, this is a delicate ritual of remembrance, held in solemnity by a boy who never thought he’d be doing this alone. For over three years, this moment was  _ shared,  _ shoulders bumping as a cigarette passed back and forth between hands. A cool breeze invades the empty space where Lavender used to sit beside him, reminding him of the void she left behind. Every morning, he has to resist the instinct to nudge an elbow into her ribs and crack a bad joke. It still feels like his big sister will be right there when he turns, shaking her head and trying not to laugh. He sighs, freeing a cloud of smoke into the air. 

His sister’s departure wasn’t a peaceful matter, but an all-out family war. Independence vs. security, parents versus daughter. 

Ma had screamed in her face, said, “Why don’t you just leave then?” 

Aster can’t forget the defiant, decisive expression that set itself in stone on his sister’s face then. As soon as Ma’s words hit the open air, nothing he said could ever change Lavender’s mind. And he tried--hell, he begged, would’ve said anything to get her to stay. Even if the Bakkers were a lost cause like she said, it didn’t matter because family  _ never _ was. Still, his pleas didn’t slow her packing up her car, rambling about freedom and principle all the while. 

She’d smiled, adjusted her rearview mirror, and said, “A new life means a new name. Something simple, mysterious even… C’mon, pick a letter, Aster. L-A-V-E-N-D-E-R makes for plenty to choose from.” 

Lavender held tight to her brave face, trying not to show weakness, but he knew what she was asking of him. If Aster picked a letter, he granted her a new name. He’d be giving her the chance to walk forward knowing part of him approved of her decision, that he respected her for the free bird she was. He always knew she wanted more than this life, and who was he to deny her that, in the end? 

“A letter,” he’d scoffed. It sounded so trivial. “Uh, how ‘bout V?” 

“V,” she’d said, tasting the name. “Lots of good words for V. Victory, vengeance…” 

“Vagina,” Aster had deadpanned, earning him one last playful smack to the back of the head. 

“Fuck you too. But V is good. Just V.” 

Without any sacrament paid to the weight of the moment, she left. 

A light tap on his shoulder interrupts his reverie with a flinch. Aster tucks his cigarette to the side of his thigh to hide it from view. 

Foxglove holds a finger to her lips with a soft, “shh.” Her antsy smile is framed by brown hair rumpled from a hard night’s sleep. 

“What’re you doing up, Fox?” he asks, holding his cigarette low, hoping the wisps of smoke won’t give him away. “And how’d you know I was out here?” 

She reaches to pluck the cigarette from his fingers. “You’re not as subtle as you think. Relax, I ain’t gonna narc on you. Couldn’t sleep.” 

His little sister brings the cigarette to her lips, frowning when he snatches it away. 

“Not for you, you’re too young.” 

“I’m not a baby anymore,” she defends. “I’m eighteen.” 

Aster takes a long drag and says, “Mhm, I’ll treat you like a grown-up when you start acting like one. If you’ve gotta state your age like it’ll prove something, you’re still too young. What’d you come over for, anyway?” 

Fox pouts for a minute before holding a hairbrush out toward him. 

“Braid my hair?” she asks. 

Aster nods, motioning for her to hop on the hood in front of him. Fox turns her back to him, folding her legs to get comfortable. 

He tosses the cigarette and gathers her hair in his hands to brush it out. Grains of sand cling to her brown strands. 

“Ow!” she squeaks when the brush snags. “Lavender was better at this.” 

Aster sighs and says, “Trust me, I know. Seems to be the case with most things.” 

Foxglove rocks herself lightly back and forth, and says, “Feels like you n’ me are the only ones that care she’s gone. Ma and dad pretend she was never here, and I don’t think Indigo ever really gave a damn…” 

“They care, believe me,” Aster says, chewing his lip. “They just think clan honor matters more. The rules are there for a reason, after all.” 

“Don’t give me that bullshit line. Rules can’t matter more than family.” 

“No sense fightin’ em, though. There’s no winning that one--not if you wanna keep clan peace, anyway.” 

“She was right, though, y’know. Snake Nation was a bad idea. S’why we’re here now,” Fox says. 

“We ended up okay. After all, the Jodes are a helluva lot better, right?” 

Fox shrugs and says, “I guess. I just wish we’d stayed the Bakkers… and that we could call her.” 

“Me too, kid,” Aster says. 

It’s quiet for a while as he sections out her hair. Being the baby of the family, Foxglove’s relationship with Lavender looked a lot different from his own. She was more protective of Fox, bending over backwards to ensure she had the chance to be a kid as long as possible. Honestly, Aster always thought she coddled her. Yet, he’s found himself doing the same thing in her stead. 

Their ma stopped braiding Fox’s hair for her when she turned thirteen, insisting she needed to start learning to do things for herself. That didn’t stop Lavender from stepping up to do it every time Fox asked. There’s a part of Aster that envies how much sheltering Fox received from her. He and Lavender were too close in age for that--their relationship was built instead on mischief and shared secrets. The two of them grew up too fast, so they still had a streak of immaturity held only between them. 

Judging by Fox’s withdrawn posture and pensive sighs as he braids her hair, this is her dawn cigarette, her ritual to remember better days. 

“You think she misses us like this?” Fox asks. 

“I sure hope so. Honestly… I keep waiting for her to come back.” 

“I used to,” Fox whispers. “Today, I’m not so sure.” 

His hands freeze mid-braid. To his own ears, his voice shakes more than he’d prefer.

“Whaddya mean? Something you’re not telling me?” 

“Heard on the radio… Wanted for terrorism against Arasaka. They’re saying she walked through the front door and just started gunning ‘em down, blew shit up, flatlined like two hundred guys--including Adam Smasher, some borg legend ‘round there. Couple reports are assuming she’s gone cyberpsycho.” 

The half-braided hair slips from Aster’s fingers. “You’re absolutely sure it was her?” 

“Oh right,” she snarks, “I’m sure there’s a  _ different _ merc named V dropping IEDs on corp doorsteps.” 

“Shiiiit… S-so, she’s on the run now, right?” 

“Maybe. Or she could already be--” 

“Don’t say it,” Aster warns. He slides off the hood of the car, pacing circles in the sand. “Don’t you dare say it. She’s tougher than all of us put together, she’s gotta be fine.” 

Fox takes her hair in her hands, braiding it for herself. “Yeah, maybe.” 

He never should have given her the name, never should have let her go so easily. 

Sunrise breaks over the desert horizon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a crazy week in Texas! Snow's gone where I live, but man, half the city's water is cut off due to main bursts. We've been without running water for almost a week now, but no worries, we're making it just fine :) 
> 
> At the very least, the school cancelations gave me some extra time to write. Hope you're all doing well ❤️


	8. holy war is on the phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny makes peace with his past and receives a not-so-subtle nudge from fate. Chapter title from "M4 Pt. II" by Faunts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings: references to child abuse and suicide

It’s a cloudy day in Texas. His hometown has only gotten uglier and the Southern weather has only gotten worse. His presence here is one more broken promise to himself, but maybe it was a hollow oath to begin with. 

The smell of an approaching storm hangs in the air as Johnny kneels before twin gravestones. The dead grass crunches under his weight. In the distance, a dog barks to the tune of a police siren. Real cemeteries are a fading tradition, as land grows scant, but this town has always been stuck in the past to some extent. 

The headstones read, _“Kathleen Linder, 1968-2070. Beloved wife and mother,”_ and _“James Linder, 1966-2024. May God forgive him.”_

There are no words on his lips and no answers in the grey sky overhead. So, his father proved everyone right by dying young, ain’t that a bitch. The timing of his death sets unease into the pit of his stomach. Did his old man finally drink himself to death, did he pick the wrong fight… or was it suicide? The latter possibility is a sour thought at best--he hated him, sure, but that... He doesn’t want to think of his mother finding him like that, doesn’t want to imagine what might have run through his head. It stings because it’s a sound possibility. It’d certainly warrant the bitter edge to the inscription choice. 

He isn’t sure there’s enough forgiveness left in this world for his father, but he’s realizing that’s okay. He doesn’t have to forgive or forget to be better than his history. Johnny doesn’t owe him that. 

“Guess I lied when I said I’d never come back. I just had to know what became of you in the end… and remind myself who I’ve tried not to be. Really, I don’t have much to say to you, ‘cept that you were one miserable, drunken son of a bitch.” 

With a woeful chuckle, he continues, “You know, I tried so hard to convince myself it was all your fault. I was so angry and desperate to get away from you, I jumped out of the frying pan and right into the fire. They put a gun in my hand, and like a trained dog, I learned to obey, when to fight, when to run... I saw and did horrible things, even lost my fucking arm. I’m sure you heard at least some of what came after that. Can’t help but wonder if it ever haunted you… Feels wrong, but kinda hope it did. Point is, I realize now, you started me on that path, but I was the one who walked it. This isn’t forgiveness, but I’m taking responsibility for my actions. Not an easy lesson, and it cost…” 

He looks at his hands, still not his own. 

“Fuck, it cost everything.” 

Johnny turns to his mother’s headstone, feeling the need to kneel a little lower for her. 

“Mom… You were right. I should have listened, and I’m sorry. But I have to say, seeing that you outlived this bastard, I’m proud. I really hope you found some peace, and I... I wish I had been there to see it.”

There’s an ache in his throat when he leaves, like he’s just broken free of a leash, walking away bruised and voiceless, but free.

The rising wind cuts through the tepid humidity, its chill reminding him that spring is slow on arrival this year. Clouds loom heavy with the threat of rain yet to come. 

These days, he likes to walk if he has the option. There’s a clarity to it, seeing the world without the haze of substances flowing through his veins, without carrying the weight of a personal war on his shoulders. He notices things that once passed him by--sights, smells, little details of his environment reminding him just how alive he is. Then sometimes he turns a blind eye, forces his thoughts to drift away when the news comes on, waves it off when corp politics come up in conversation. 

College Station is a patchwork city if there ever was one. It’s the victim of a long-waged battle; it’s crumbling streets, abandoned houses, dying trees, and struggling mom-and-pop businesses versus the appetite of the corporate beast. Gentrified zones are packed tight around the decay, painted over in neon lights, modern architecture, and flashy ads. He hasn’t been here long, yet he’s learned to stay away from the urbanized areas as much as he can, lest the mayhem machine swallow him up again. 

Today marks six months of stolen time. For everything he’s done with it, Johnny imagines how V would have spent it instead. It’s been half a year she could have taken for herself, to drink from life’s fountain with the days she still had. He can see her so clearly, laughing with strangers in a bar, grinning at the rush of a good old fashioned street race, lying in the sun with a sigh on her lips, letting herself be taken over by her lust for adventure. That’s what he wanted for her, anyway. And he wonders… Would she feel this ache, this fever, for him? Would she hear this raw _silence,_ so loud she’d scream his name in the night? 

This life she placed in his hands, it _is_ beautiful, but it’s cold. After a while, the music came back, but where his songs were once embodied of anger and purpose, they now bleed sorrows he can’t condense into words. He’s found a path of peace, but he walks it as a shadow in darkness. 

Until there’s a light. 

All the deserted houses in this part of town look alike--peeling paint, splintering wood, broken windows, and yards overgrown by a thicket of dying weeds, vines, and bushes. Something odd catches his eye, a speck of purple in his periphery, hidden away amid the sepia tones. There’s an unseen tug on his stride, pulling him near. The dead brush snaps beneath his weight as he trudges through it. There, in the remnants of a planter box in the window, is a single lavender blossom. The flower is faded with brown-tinged petals, barely alive, but somehow, it survives. He reaches his hand out to give it a gentle touch. It quivers against his fingers, this tiny little miracle concealed here to face the world alone. 

Something like a sob, but not quite, breaks from his lungs. He’s never been one to believe in signs, destiny, omens--that’s for people who don’t find the answers they want, so they make up some mumbo jumbo to help them sleep at night. But this… This calls to something he buried deep inside, something he thought he killed, and that something _snaps._

The first few drops of rain begin to fall. 

* * *

The belt still hangs from his parents’ bedroom doorknob, the cheapest of syn-leather, well-worn but forever stiff. Seventy years and change later, Johnny tenses at the sight of it as instinctively as he did in youth. With no hand to wield it, its presence holds no threat now, but that doesn’t stop the shiver rolling up his spine. He doesn’t remember when his father started hanging it there, it just always has. His father displayed it as a warning, an unspoken, “watch your step, boy.” The buckle would clink against the door each time it opened and closed, like an alarm bell. Johnny had learned to listen for that sound and gauge the footsteps against squeaky floorboards, his ears attuned to the tempos of drunkenness and anger. 

The canister of chew-two in his hand sloshes with each step he takes. When he saw V’s memories, he felt them as though he’d lived it, striding through a veil of a history not his own. Walking through his childhood home feels similar, except this living memory is actually _his._ This house sits empty, falling into decay as a remnant of an untold story, and yet that belt remains on the doorknob like nothing had ever changed at all. 

He hums a nameless tune as he pours the fuel. It slicks floorboards, splashes against wallpaper, soaks into curtains, dribbles down window panes. 

It all burns so bright, smoke spilling into a starless night. It’s a fitting end to the story he never tells. Somehow, he knows V would be proud of him. She’d get that mischievous smile of hers as the flames reflected in her eyes. Maybe she’d take his hand, the scent of burning history gracing the air between them. 

He sighs as distant sirens warn him to delta while he still has the chance. Johnny puts the blaze in his rearview mirror and sets out for the Westbound highway. 

It’s time to break a second promise to himself: one that he’d never go back to Night City. All this time, he’s been drifting where the wind takes him; he’s done gigs, explored ghost towns, driven miles of highway, written songs he never finishes... All while trying to avoid V’s eyes in the mirror. Today, he’s done. He’s done sharing his bed with strangers, keeping his eyes shut tight as her name threatens to fall from his lips. These listless efforts to stop feeling so alone, to fill the quiet void, it all ends now. He’s followed this path to the end of the line--now he realizes it goes nowhere if he doesn’t _know._ V’s death isn’t an absolute, no matter how fervently he tells himself otherwise. He’s been living like this body is a temple and he is its undertaker, quitting bad habits, instead getting into a routine of fucking jogging, of all things… and refusing to transition because it feels wrong, somehow. She wanted more for him. Now he’s sure he’ll never attain that, not unless he can sleep at night knowing he _tried._

If she’s out there somewhere, Johnny will find a way. Even if he has to search the darkest depths of cyberspace, he will find her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act 2, yay! Really wanted this chapter to be longer, but it felt right as it is. Hopefully I'll get some longer chapters for you guys soon :)


End file.
